Severine
by 009
Summary: As Silva takes an innocent woman for target pracise, daring Bond to shoot, he has already taken control. What if Bond never let him get that far?
1. Severine

Disclaimer: I do not own the Bond movies or books.

Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence and gore.

I hope you will enjoy this story!

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"Oh, Mr Bond!" Silva's voice was mocking, but Bond payed him little heed. His orders might be to bring him in for questioning, but in times like these James liked to trust his instincts first, and orders second. It was, after all what kept him alive. And with this man, his instincts were screaming an answer at him.

Largely ignoring Silva's attempts to scare, lure or plain play with him, 007 carefully kept his face bland as he worked the pen-knife through his bonds. Almost there. As if planned, Silva was leaning closer now, smiling tauntingly at him. In an effort to keep him distracted for just those crucial last seconds, Bond parted his legs a miniscule amount beyond what his bonds forced him to, knowing Silva would notice and hopefully attribute it to a subconcious gesture in responce to.. well, whatever, really. Bond didn't care.

The second later, just as Silva was as close as possible, James was free. Bending his head down as Silva was, the former agent was really in a optimal position to have his throat cut, but the current agent decided against it. He'd have to move pretty far to do it, tipping Silva off and giving him time to protect himself. Bond would rather not be sprayed with the flowing blood which would burst from an artery of that pressure, either, if it could be avoided.

He could, of course, try and cut open Silva's chest. Go for the heart, lungs or any major blood vessels, but he knew from experience that attempting to cut through the ribcage with any kind of speed with a pen-knife was just not to be recommended. That left the gut, then.

In one precise movement, the entire thoughtprocess having been nearly instantaneous, Bond moved his arms to in front of himself and drove the knife clean through the skin of Silva's soft underbelly. Not pausing, Bond moved the knife upwards towards the sternum, plunging the knife in as deeply as he could, covering his own hand with blood and grime while effectively gutting the surprised man above him.

Before Silva could react for the shock, Bond pulled his arm out from the other man's bowels, angling the knife and dragging the deflected agent's smaller and larger intestines out as he went, trying to speed up his death. Rolling over, chair and all, he used what was quickly going from Silva to Silva's body for cover. By the time the goons who were behind him as he sat, who both made the mistake of waiting for orders which would not come, started to move around their nearly dead boss, Bond had freed himself from the chair and was ready for them.

Less than a minute later, Bond buttoned his shirt and adjusted his cuffs as he stepped out of the building, where the blood of the two previously armed men mixed with their boss' entrails on the cold concrete floor. His distress bacon already activated, Bond went in search for Severine.


	2. Madeleine

Everyone at the office; boffins and secretaries and admins alike, expected it to be a grand, fantastic romance. Bond did not. It was not because he was cold, because he didn't think he could love her, or even because he couldn't do monogamy, much like they thought he couldn't. (Much as they forgot, faced with the Big Romance in the air.) He could. He wasn't being synical, either. Just experienced.

After he had killed Silva and saved Severine, he had brought her back with him, along with the corpse of the former agent in a bodybag. She had stayed with him for a while, like he suspected she would (he had nothing against it. He liked the woman, and if she wanted to rediscover herself after all the years of virtually slavery in his bed, then he was willing therapy) and finally, five or six weeks after the fact, she had been staring into her food at dinner, starting a conversation it wasn't his first time having. As he knew she would, eventually.

He had, differently from her expectation (he couldn't blame her for that, even had he wanted to, which he didn't. Her experience with men involved another breed than him entirely) and possibly most others' too if they had known, answered graciously and kept his voice soothing.

He told her he knew. He assured her there was no hard feelings in the least and that he understood. He did. This time, their last embrace, was a hug full of deep friendship and mutual respect. He helped her go, feeling proud of her rather than bittersweet, and was always there if she needed advice, Spartan as their contact was.

He thought of It, leaving a mission with Madeleine holding his hand, steady and just there. This one, this lover. It was another feeling entirely: he picked it up with every sense. Different than Severine, different than Vesper, more than countless others whose names anybody would have been surprised to find that he did in fact remember.

This last lady, he got to keep.


End file.
